Joey

Looking back on my first memories is kind of like watching a movie. I don’t remember what I felt, though I’m sure if I tried I could tell you. I remember what I saw. I remember what I heard. I remember the tantrums, the lies, the screaming and crying. I remember the bleeding and the healing and the bleeding all over again. I remember it all.

I can remember what the apartments we were frequently evicted from looked like. I remember the chips in the paint and the holes in the walls and the rust on the doorknobs. But my first real memory is from when I was two. My sister had just been born.

My father worked three jobs at one point, but I don’t know how many he had when this occurred. I just know that he worked and my mother didn’t; therefore, the money was his to spend as he wanted. He didn’t want to support us, he wanted to go out and party. He was 20, after all, my mother barely a year his junior.

He came home and demanded to know where his money was, and my mother claimed it was in the bank. He wasn’t satisfied with that. He didn’t believe her. He looked through the cabinets, wondering where she hid it.

He threw everything in it, getting more and more frustrated as he went through shelf after shelf to no avail. He broke glass bottles and poured the liquid out of prescriptions. He threw anything that wasn’t easily shattered, usually at my mother or me. He had all of our cabinets completely emptied before he realized she wasn’t lying, and he wasn’t happy with that, either. He got worse. He stepped over the shattered glass. He threw punches. At anything. Me, my mother, the walls. He threw the dog cage, and when I let the dog out, he threw it again, at me. He screamed and yelled and raged. I cried and cowered. He grabbed me. He wrapped one hand around my fragile wrists. I cried. I bruised.

This wasn’t a regular occurrence from then on. He didn’t throw punches as often, and he rarely threw anything else. But still, for years, I put up with it. I desperately wanted a relationship with my father. I believed it every time he said that he had changed. I believed he was a better man. I was mistaken.

I said I was done. I wasn’t.

I still remember him calling me a selfish piece of shit. I remember him calling me a whore, and a bitch, and saying that I would never succeed in anything. I remember him threatening to crash the car as I screamed at him from the passenger side. I remember him threatening to knock my teeth out. I remember feeling helpless as I stared out the car window. I remember it all.

Again, I said I was done. Again, I wasn’t.

I started cutting at eight. That’s right, eight. “Just one. I’m just trying it. I’m just curious,” I told myself.

I lied to myself.

It got worse and worse. It went from a few small scratches out of stress to no recognizable flesh from my wrists to my shoulders. Burns, bruises, cuts. Whatever was most convenient the next time I felt hurt. I bled. The wounds started to heal. I re-opened them, deeper, worse. You could see bones. You could see muscles. But you couldn’t see flesh anywhere on my arms or thighs. There were cuts on my hips, on my stomach. Anywhere people wouldn’t see. I had bruises on my face, on my arms and my legs. I would bang my head against a wall or hit myself. I would put matches out on my skin. I would carve the names he called me into my arms with a steak knife.

I was doing to myself what he threatened to do. What he occasionally did. I think it gave me control, at first. I wouldn’t let him hurt me physically. I would do it to myself. I would control what physical pain I felt. Then it became a comfort. If I felt alone, or hurt, or whatever else, I would self-injure. It was like a friend. It was a constant. It was the only thing that would always be there when I needed it.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated life. I hated myself and I hated everyone else. I wanted to die. I had a date set. I hate a note written. I had the method and the supplies ready.

He found out about my self-injury days before the date I had set. He shook his head. He told me again that I was selfish and that I would never succeed.

I said I was done.

This time, I meant it.

I was done with the pain, with the insults and the lies. The disappointment and his grabbing my wrists and rolling up my sleeves, telling me that it was for attention. Telling me that he’d do it to me.

I said I would succeed. I would prove him wrong. I would be as successful as I’d ever hope to be, and I would be happy, and my success would be the biggest “Fuck you” I could give him.

It’s been over a year now, and I’d be more than a liar to say I was healed, but I’m trying, and it’s slowly happening.

I don’t talk to him. I don’t want him to know anything about me. That I have a girlfriend, or that I may not be healed, but I’m happy. That I’m a good student, a good friend, a great girlfriend and an excellent songwriter. Or that I’m confident, and I know now that I’m not a whore, and that I am pretty.

Maybe I’ll always be afraid of people grabbing my arms. Maybe the look in my eyes will always change and I’ll always tear up as I pull them away.

And maybe I’ll always feel like I’m not as good as everyone else on the street I’m walking down.

And maybe I’ll always feel selfish. Maybe his words were that powerful.

I couldn’t tell you. I can’t see the future.

But I’ll always be a survivor.

####

Joey writes at The Tired Anthem of a Loser and a Hypocrite.

Thank you for visiting Violence UnSilenced, a speak-out platform for survivors of domestic abuse, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. If you are a survivor and it is safe to do so, we encourage you to share your story here. If you are not a survivor but you want to support those who are, please click around this site and find out more about what you can do.

27 Comments | June 16, 2010 | Filed Under domestic violence, survivor story

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Traci

Thank you for sharing your story. My heart flys out to you and I wish I could comfort you in some way. Please know this, You are successful, you are here!! You have lived through terrors a child, a human should never know and you not only survived but have been brave enough to share it with the world. I wish you all the best in your healing xo

Joey

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